by L. M. Reed
Chapter 7
Dear Diary,
First day of school…again.
CeeCee
My senior year…I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.
Most of my mixed feelings were due to the fact that I hadn’t been able to convince Felicia to go to UT with me. She’d become such a huge part of my life since that fateful Craig incident, that I couldn’t imagine it without her. Her grades, as well as her SAT’s, weren’t all that great, so she felt that college would be wasted on her.
We were lying by the pool at Felicia’s house—Felicia’s parents had a swimming pool, which they seldom used since they were usually gone on vacation for most of the summer, but coming back early for Dad’s funeral had caused them to change their plans—and I tried to casually steer the conversation toward college. However, Felicia picked up on what I was doing at once.
“You know I don’t like studying, CeeCee,” she had explained to me with exaggerated patience, “and I am no good at it even when I do try to study. Everything comes so easily to you, you just don’t understand.”
“We could be in all of the same classes, and I would help you study. Come on, Felicia, we have to stay together,” I pleaded. “I’ve only had you for a year, I need longer.”
“Maybe I could just move to Austin and get a job,” Felicia said hopefully.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” I argued, “You know it wouldn’t.”
“What would I major in, Stupid 101?” she asked a tad mockingly.
“Now that I can help you with,” I told her excitedly, “I have a pretty good idea of what your major should be.”
“Do tell,” the sarcasm was more marked, “I can hardly wait.”
“Before I do, answer me this,” I demanded, “What did you spend all last spring doing…and enjoying, I might add?”
Felicia looked confused for a moment, then her face cleared and she said, “Redecorating my room, of course, but you can’t major in that,” she declared emphatically.
“Can’t you?” I asked facetiously. “I believe they call it interior design.”
“CeeCee, you are so naïve” she shook her head in exasperation. “Just because I can decorate my room the way I like it, that doesn’t mean I would be any good at professional decorating.”
“You idiot,” I teased, “I’m not that stupid. Well, maybe I am, but that’s not the point. Your parents let you decorate practically the whole house. It’s a showplace and you know it. It should be in a magazine. Everyone who comes to your house says so, not just me.”
“But I don’t know that much about what other people would like, just what I do.”
She was so stubborn…like I should talk.
“The whole point of majoring in something is to learn how to do it. My point is that you have the ‘underlying skills necessary to become an interior designer’. You enjoy doing it, you have style, you’re better with color coordination than anyone else I know, not that I know that many people,” I admitted laughingly, “and you have great taste. I got all of that straight off of a website, by the way, so you can’t argue with it,” I warned her. I was feeling smug and she knew it. “Please, just apply and give it a chance. One semester is all I’m asking. We can be roommates, take classes together, and I promise I’ll help you study.”
“I’ll think about it,” she hesitantly agreed.
“That will do for now,” I conceded.
That was more than I had anticipated getting from her, so I could afford to be patient. She would come around.
